The Bread Winner
by Lono
Summary: Molly is sick. Sherlock decides he should help her. He might just manage it, too, if he doesn't get arrested in the process. One-shot, prompt fill. Post-Reichenbach, but few to no spoilers.


**Author's Note:** This started as a prompt fill, suggested by MorbidByDefault. It kind of changed as I wrote it, but it still has a bit of the theme that she requested. This is admittedly the first fanfict I've ever written. I didn't have it beta read, so there are probably some glaring mistakes that I've missed. I apologize for any errors.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, to my great regret.

...

Of all the words one might use to describe Sherlock Holmes, the term "Nightingale-esque" likely wouldn't occur to the person assigning adjectives to the man. To wit, people who met Sherlock might describe him as _brilliant_, _genius_, and _astounding_, sometimes in conjunction with the far less flattering _cold_, _uncaring_, and _machine_ (thank you, John).

Often, he went so far as to describe himself as a sociopath, though he intellectually knew that there would be plenty of people (mainly psychologists and other scientists whose job it was to study the human mind and its plethora of personality disorders) who might take umbrage to that descriptor.

No, Sherlock did not honestly think he was a sociopath. But telling the interfering masses that he was one certainly gave him room to _move_. It gave him autonomy in a world that smacked of codependency. Caring was not an advantage and so on. What came part and parcel with that autonomy was the self-awareness and blatant admission that, while he wasn't a purposefully cruel man, he certainly wasn't a gentle, nurturing one, either.

Which was why the case of the sniffles currently afflicting his temporary roommate was wholly inconvenient.

Oh, Molly Hooper hadn't asked Sherlock to tend to her. There was no expectation of his playing nurse. She hadn't requested that he even remotely pay attention to her in her wretched state (_wretched state_ being the best words she could think of to describe the blasted chesty cough and stuffy head which she found herself suffering from).

Her stiff upper lip (and not just stiff from the chapped skin caused by her charming nasal drip) was what made it so damnably hard for Sherlock to ignore her. He sat on her sofa, trying to quarantine himself in his mind palace while she rode out the cold, but he couldn't quite close the palace's gate to the sight of her shuffling around the flat in red, flannel pyjama pants, an oversized, pink jumper-all under a tatty, blue dressing gown-with her hair a tangled brillow pad on the back of her head. Her sniffly nose, wheezy breath, and intermittent cough sounded the death knell to any meditative state he might have reached, and he gave up trying to achieve it with a long-suffering sigh.

Flinging himself up from the sofa, Sherlock followed Molly's dragging steps into her small kitchen. Standing in the doorway, he observed that she cut a rather sad figure. She hadn't bothered to tie her dressing gown closed, and as she walked, the tie had been pulled out of one of the robe's side loops so that she now dragged a long, terry cloth tail behind her. Her cat, Toby, was finding this massively entertaining, rolling around, gnawing at the rapidly fraying end as Molly stared blankly into her cupboard.

Heaving a sigh of her own, she stretched up on tiptoe to grab a tin of chicken soup that had somehow made it to the topmost shelf. As her fingers brushed the soup can, she felt a movement behind her just before a larger hand brushed hers aside and pulled the tin from the cupboard.

Molly opened her mouth to protest. She actually wouldn't put it past Sherlock to decide suddenly that _he_ wanted to eat the soup. She'd spent enough time with her young nieces and nephews to know that, often, the least likely item would become the object of everyone's desire if one person expressed interest in it-particularly food items. While Sherlock was an intermittent eater at best, who was she to deny the seductive appeal of Co-operative brand chicken noodle soup?

Before she could make a sound, however, Sherlock gave Molly a withering glare, saying in a languidly bored voice, "I do believe mucus does not a delicious soup make, Dr. Hooper. Enough with this pathetic show. Go lay down and I will warm the soup and bring it to you."

That she didn't get particularly ruffled when Sherlock called her behavior 'pathetic' was a testament to how ill Molly felt. Instead, she spared one last longing glance at the soup tin before turning back out of the kitchen, her slippered feet shuffling on the carpeted floor. She didn't make it far before she turned back around and hoarsely asked, "Do you know _how_ to make soup, Sherlock?"

"While the task, with its difficulty, may very well drain all cognitive function I have, Molly, I am willing to risk it," he responded absently as he noisily dug her tin opener out from a drawer by the sink.

With a shrug, she turned again and plodded back down the hall, not noticing Toby darting after her errant dressing gown tie. Just as she'd settled herself back in her bed, she heard Sherlock call to her, "Molly, where do you keep your Bunsen burner?" Before she could reply in dismay he answered his own question with an exasperated, "Oh, never mind, then. I'll just use the cooktop." The clattering noises continued to carry down the hallway, but over them Molly was pretty sure she could hear Sherlock muttering something about plebeians failing to stock basic chemistry equipment in their kitchens.

She must have drifted off, because the next thing Molly heard was the floorboards in the hall creaking just outside her room. A stylishly-shod foot kicked her door further open, and in came Sherlock, gingerly carrying a tray laden with a large bowl, a mug, and a plate with what looked like bread on it. Which was disconcerting, to say the least, as she was pretty sure she had thrown away a rather mouldy loaf just the day before, and hadn't been to the market since.

"Sherlock," she queried, "is that toast that you've made me?"

After what appeared to be a brief inner struggle over how sarcastically he should reply, Sherlock decided to show a sick Molly some mercy and give a straight-forward answer.

"Yes, Molly. Yes it is. Now eat up!" His delivery of what might usually be a chipper command from someone else came out of his mouth sounding more like an ultimatum, with its alternative probably involving a lengthy and embarrassing deduction about her digestive system.

"It's just," Molly continued, "I didn't think there was any bread left. I was wondering where you found time to go to buy groceries?"

"Oh, that? No, no, I didn't go to the market. This is homemade," Sherlock explained, looking rather proud of himself.

Though she was taken aback, Molly managed to respond, "You... you baked a loaf of bread?"

_Oh, you silly, silly woman_, Sherlock thought to himself. Really, her lack of observation skills was sort of endearing. "Of course not. Your neighbour-the one with undiagnosed diabetes and an over-abundance of yappy-type dogs-baked it."

"Mrs. Wormwood? I didn't hear her come by. When did she drop it off? Did she see you?!" Molly was growing alarmed. Thus far, she and Sherlock had kept his cohabitant status a secret, and they had agreed that it should stay that way as long as humanly possible. She had a hard time picturing Sherlock flinging open the flat's door in welcome to a timid knock from an eighty-year-old woman, but how else could a loaf of Mrs. Wormwood's crusty bread end up in Molly Hooper's flat? Unless...

"Really Molly, you have been here the whole day. Even you would have noticed that. Your flat is hardly Kensington Palace," Sherlock said as he finally grew tired of just standing there holding the tray. He busied himself, arranging the meal on her bedside table before continuing, "No, I availed myself of a loaf of Mrs. Wormwood's bread when I was in her flat five minutes ago. She popped out to run some errands. The timing was truly ideal."

Molly shot up from her prone position on the bed, ignoring the dizziness brought on by her congested head in favor of shouting (or at least trying to shout; laryngitis really was stupid), "You stole the bread?! Sherlock, how could you? She's an innocent, little, old lady! What's she done to you? And it's not as if we can take the bread back now! Not after you hacked several slices off and put marmite on them. And, really, Sherlock, _marmite_? Do you not know me at all? I loathe the stuff!"

Now he was starting to get annoyed. Here, he had done a truly generous thing for the woman and she had the temerity to question his methods of food procurement. He certainly hadn't noticed her rushing off to Tesco to rectify their dearth of digestives!Whilst entertaining this thought and puffing up with righteous indignation, Sherlock conveniently forgot Molly's current state of ill health.

"I'll have you know, Molly, there is no innocence where your neighbour is concerned. Surely, you've met the oaf she calls a son, who has an unfortunate proclivity for imitation crocodile skin shoes and who visits every three days?"

She stared at him, trying to discern where this going. "Harry? What about him?"

"I wouldn't expect you to notice, but really, it could only serve you well to pay attention. The pencil thin mustache usually only found on teenage boys incapable of producing more substantial facial hair; the loud suit in unfortunate shades of yellow and puce, complete with a fedora (probably to cover early-onset allopecia); The aforementioned vinyl shoes. From what we've seen and heard, he has an over-indulged family of his own, which has got to get rather expensive.

But no, most damning are the bits of sawdust and flakes of glue that cling to his person. Were he a laborer, he would hardly wear a suit. Were he a reputable business man, he would likely be less miserly or slovenly with his wardrobe, wanting to look smart and dependable. In a word, he's a salesman, So what type of salesman wouldn't care what his customers think of him and would only think of getting the most profit for his family to fritter away? And what sort of salesman would have daily run-ins with sawdust and glue? A used car salesman, Molly. One who puts sawdust in cars' transmissions and glues misplaced mirrors and fenders back on, and likely clocks his inventory's odometers for good measure. In other words, a criminal car salesman."

As Sherlock wrapped up his long spiel, Molly merely blinked at him for moment, before asking the most pressing question that had occurred to her while he waxed logical: "Okay, but what does that have to do with his mother? The octogenarian whose loaf of bread you stole? Are we punishing her for the sins of the son?"

The long-suffering look he shot her was eloquent. She might have felt chagrinned, too, if she hadn't known Sherlock and his swottiness for several years now. "Come now, Molly. Surely you can tell that Mrs. Wormwood isn't only aware of her son's activities, but is, in fact, the ring leader of their little organization? Have we not heard her discuss at great length with her Wednesday bridge club how hard it is for a woman to a certain age to run a profitable business? Have we not also heard her discussing said business with her ratty son?"

"No, _we_ haven't, Sherlock. You may have failed to notice, but I go to work during the days. I wasn't aware that Mrs. Wormwood has a bridge club, let alone when it meets. I've been too busy being the bread winner for us. Winner, not Stealer.

Whether or not Mrs. Wormwood is in on some racket involving used cars is not our concern. We are not in the business of dealing vigilante punishment by way of bread theft. And I know you. My neighbour's shady dealings were just a happy coincidence that you used to justify creeping into her flat like a giant, overgrown scavenger and stealing her food."

Molly spoke with increasing resolve as she began gathering clean clothes from a basket of wash that had yet to be put away.

"What are you doing," Sherlock asked, as Molly made for the bathroom with clothes in hand.

"I'm getting dressed. I am going to go to the bakery and try to find some facsimile of Mrs. Wormwood's bread. How much longer will she be out?"

"An hour," he replied without bothering to explain why he was so certain. And really, Molly thought to herself, why should he? "I was only hoping help you feel a bit better. You're really quite ill and shouldn't exhaust yourself," Sherlock said, looking for all of the world like his favorite electron microscope had suddenly lost all of its magnification.

This drew Molly up short. "And I haven't even thanked you for it," she murmured, before walking back across the room, where she came to a stop directly in front of him. "Forgive me." Raising up on tiptoe and pulling him down with a bracing hand on his shoulder, she placed a light kiss on his right cheek. "Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you for taking care of me."

Though he would have dealt a devastating verbal joust to anyone who cared to observe it aloud, Sherlock felt his cheeks growing the faintest bit (and mortifyingly) rosy.

_Epilogue_

Mildred Wormwood returned from having tea with her friend, June. She was relieved to be home and away from that old biddy, who could gossip a person's ear off, if one wasn't careful.

She toed off her sensible pumps and made her way into the kitchen, pausing only to pet her small dog, who was only lightly biting her ankles in his attempts to get her attention. As she straightened back up, she looked to the kitchen counter, swelling with pride at the sight of that morning's baking efforts: three loaves of bread, crusts a perfect golden brown, just waiting to be slathered with butter and jam.

As she was about to turn away, however, something caught her eye. Drawing nearer, she realized on the last loaf of bread there perched small piece of paper. Though she didn't have her reading spectacles on hand, she was able to decipher the dramatic, swooping scrawl on the paper. First, it complimented her on her delicious bread, and then helpfully suggested that she and her son consider relocating out of London presently, as a lot of police scrutiny was about to be directed to their humble little auto dealership.

Mildred looked at her dog. The dog looked back at Mildred.

Silence reigned supreme.

_The End_

**...**

**Author's note #2**: Not sure why I felt the need to include Matilda Wormwood's father (and heretofore unmentioned grandmother) in this story. It didn't start as a conscious decision- they just wormed (har har) their way into the story. If you haven't read _Matilda_ by Roald Dahl, please do so. And if you happen by London, go see the musical. Until recently, the role of Ms. Trunchbull was played by Bertie Carvell, who also played Sebastian Wilkes in _Sherlock's _"The Blind Banker". If nothing else, listen to him singing "The Smell of Rebellion" on the _Matilda_ original cast recording.

The fact that I just spent an entire paragraph extolling the virtues of a children's book/West End musical might indicate that I'm in some sort of _Matilda_ Super PAC, but I swear I'm just a fan...

Thanks for reading! Hopefully it wasn't painful. Any critiques welcomed!


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